


The Curse

by not_poignant



Series: The Fae Tales Verse [8]
Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Original Work
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Childbirth, Classism, Court Politics, Difficult Pregnancy, F/M, Fae Magic, Fae Tales canon, Family, Mind Control, Poisoning, Poisons, Pregnancy, Sadism, Sadomasochism, Sex Aversion, Torture, cruelty to animals (not explicit), fae, glamour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crielle ferch Fnwy is a common fae of Seelie Court status living under the An Fnwy curse, a distant magic that forces cruelty and horror into a bloodline of fae who are supposed to be good, honourable, virtuous citizens. Managing her darker proclivities with the reputation of goodness she is expected to present to the rest of the world is not easy, and she cannot do it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [of_raven_wings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_raven_wings/gifts).



> This is part one of two, and is a character study more than anything - and may not make sense if you are unfamiliar with the Fae Tales verse (my apologies to new readers). 
> 
> This is Crielle ferch Fnwy, so you can expect some pretty intense levels of cruelty / remorseless behaviour from her.
> 
> Thanking you all in advance for kudos and comments. <3

She gets everything she wants as a baby. It takes her parents a few years to realise that her dra’ocht – the fae glamour that pulses and pushes and projects – is perhaps the most powerful ever seen. Mages who are trained to know the powers of a fae child, are not trained to pick up that sweet, buttery gleam of want. Fae with dra’ocht so powerful are rare, and besides, she was lulling them all before they were even in the room.

It’s not until Rhiamon – her grandmother – makes a tiny, spidery charm to protect herself from the dra’ocht of another that she realises.

‘Adain, that child is getting her way.’

Crielle had refused to speak for three years – despite many fae children being precocial and able to pick up languages within weeks or days. She had no need to.

That weekend, Rhiamon started pushing herself to deny what Crielle wanted. It was difficult, the toddler watching her with increasing amounts of confusion, followed by disdain.

Crielle’s first word:

‘Disgusting.’

*

Even with the magic of Mages on their side, her parents were helpless to what Rhiamon called her ‘natural charms.’ Crielle had no respect for them. They were mannequins that brought her whatever she wished, or suffered under her increasingly unrealistic desires. She did not like the vacuous way they wanted her to be happy, their love was an empty object; it looked pretty enough on the outside, but she wanted the _meat_.

She wanted her room to be festooned with flowers at all times, but she loathed bees. She pushed her father past the point of endurance many times, using her glamour to make sure he kept the windows open, kept providing fresh flowers, pinched the bees out of existence with his hand. If he missed the stinger, she became irascible. His hands were often swollen.

They could afford good healers, and still he doted on her.

But she enjoyed those small, indrawn breaths. The way his face would flush red and he’d look confused, momentarily, as though he’d expected not to feel such things around his daughter.

Eventually her father was stung by one of the rarer, truly poisonous ivy bees – a green thing with eyes the colour of emeralds – and he was bedridden and sick for weeks; even with healer intervention.

‘Mam,’ Crielle said in delight, ‘does it hurt him? Can you bring his bed in here?’

Her mother brought her father’s sickbed into Crielle’s room, just as excited as Crielle. They shared giggles and nervous laughter together, and Crielle wanted another ivy bee – she hadn’t seen the first before her father had destroyed it, pushing its stinger deep into the flesh of his thumb. Her mother diligently looked for ivy bees; but they were too hard to find.

When Rhiamon visited a week later, she took one look at her exhausted but happy daughter, and one look at the joy in Crielle’s dark blue eyes and grimaced.

‘The An-Fnwy curse is strong with you, isn’t it? Someone needs to take charge of you, don’t they, my sweet?’

Crielle made a face at her, but Rhiamon had more charms and fought the glamour well.

‘I’m having fun!’

‘There are more ways to have fun than to drive your parents – my _children_ – into an early grave.’

‘You want me to be boring,’ Crielle spat, crawling out of her bed and looking up at Rhiamon, wishing she could dig her fingers into her bony knees. ‘You want me to give up the things I love doing. To be _proper.’_

‘No,’ Rhiamon said, a cruel light entering her own dark blue eyes. She brushed locks of golden hair behind her shoulder and knelt down so that she could look Crielle in the eye. ‘No, my sweet, I only wish for you to _hide_ it better.’

Curiosity sparked in Crielle’s heart, and after a minute of wondering if this was something she wanted, her eyebrows raised.

‘Will you teach me about poisons?’

Rhiamon cupped her cheek with the palm of her hand – the first unsolicited touch Crielle had ever received – and smirked.

‘That and more.’

Crielle’s heart fluttered in excitement, and she decided her grandmother might not be as disgusting as she’d assumed.

*

Her parents – separated from Crielle long enough to fall out from under the weight of her glamour – were horrified to realise how out of control their lives had become. Crielle made them forget about Court appointments, carefully cultivated strategy meetings, themselves, each other, their desires. And so Crielle was moved to her grandmother’s home to learn to control herself, and her parents began to try for another child.

They loved Crielle dearly, but she frightened them.

Crielle liked that.

Rhiamon insisted on being called ‘Nain’ or ‘Mam-gu.’ Despite being thousands of years old, she still looked only thirty – the age at which she decided to stop her body from changing its appearance. She was stunning, but carried an austerity about her which encouraged people to look beyond her beauty. Crielle envied that. She was always described as the prettiest, the most beautiful, ‘Oh, those eyes!’

‘Use it to your advantage,’ Rhiamon would say when Crielle complained about it. ‘If that is what people see when they first look at you, they will not see what you really are.’

_What you really are._

Crielle learned that she was not, exactly, the best example of a Seelie fae. This was inconvenient. Born into a long line of politically important fae, she had a lot to live up to, and people expected a lot from her. She was meant to care about goodness in the world; honour and duty towards her kingdom.

‘Nain?’ Crielle said one evening, crawling onto the couch after spending a day tormenting birds; she still smelled of bird musk. ‘Nain? What’s the An-Fnwy curse?’

She had asked this question before, but no one would speak of it. Even when she blasted them with her dra’ocht and left them dazed. She had that under tighter control now. Rhiamon had trained her. Crielle no longer sent tidal waves of glamour incessantly upon everyone she met, but conversely, it meant that when she deliberately used it, she was stronger than she ever was.

‘Oh, that,’ Rhiamon said, putting down the tiny animal skull she cradled in her hand. Crielle reached for it, but stopped at the hand that rested on her wrist.

If her parents had _dared,_ she would have punished them. But she loved Rhiamon and sat back, sitting neatly and waiting, expectant.

She was surprised when Rhiamon didn't tell her anything at all.

Then she was vexed.

She wanted to _know._

*

Two nights later Rhiamon sat by her bedside, brushing her fingers quickly over the flame of a candle, occasionally holding them there longer. Crielle could smell the faint scent of burning fingernails in the air. She was already familiar with the scent of keratin. She’d held the trembling fingers of servants over flames before. Rhiamon had gotten very good at sourcing silencing and memory charms for the rest of her staff.

‘A Mage once cursed the An-Fnwy line. So long ago that we do not know the Mage, nor the names of the people he cursed. So the story goes.’

‘Why?’

‘He was terribly insulted,’ Rhiamon said, pinching at the tip of the candle-flame, threatening to snuff it from existence. ‘A member of our line behaved in a way he found most unsettling. To punish them, and the rest of us, he lay a curse upon our bloodline that would make us cruel and malicious. Even though we are Seelie, even though we have only ever been Seelie, he made us more like our cousins across the river.’

Rhiamon was talking of the Unseelie fae. Crielle hadn’t met many Unseelie yet, but they didn’t seem so bad. They didn’t seem nearly as cruel as her either.

Honestly, she thought them somewhat weak.

Crielle said as much to Rhiamon.

‘The curse has a tendency to be more keenly felt in certain generations. Your mam is not as touched by it as I am, as you are. My mam was the same. And my sweet, it is _very_ strong in you.’

‘What would I be like if the curse was lifted?’ Crielle said, eyes widening. ‘Would I be like everyone else?’

‘I doubt it,’ Rhiamon smiled, dragging her fingers through hot wax and apparently not registering the burn at all. Crielle had learned a long time ago that Rhiamon liked to experience pain as much as she liked to inflict it. She found that fascinating. It also meant that when Crielle’s sadism did slip through Rhiamon’s protective charms, it was often quite dissatisfying. She’d once made Rhiamon slice her palm with a grater, and Rhiamon had kept eye-contact with Crielle the entire time, eyes bright with avid hunger.

It wasn’t exactly what Crielle wanted.

‘Do you want to be like everyone else?’ Rhiamon added.

‘I want them to believe I’m like them,’ Crielle said breathlessly. ‘People let you do anything if they believe you’re good.’

‘You _are_ good.’ Her voice earnest and fierce. ‘You are _wonderful._ But if you want to be like them, you’ll have to be even better at hiding that dra’ocht and cruelty of yours. You’ll have to learn to savour your sadism, instead of inflicting it upon others every day. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the lack of songbirds in my garden, now, dear.’

Crielle’s lips lifted in a half-smile.

‘Have you noticed I cleared many of the rats and mice in your cottage roof?’

Rhiamon sighed.

‘See? I do nice things too,’ Crielle said, reaching up and snuffing out the candle flame, plunging the room into darkness and giggling when Rhiamon sighed again.

*

She was eleven when her sister, Penarddun, was born.

She returned home with ideas of becoming more important to the Court than her mother. She was learning how to be a Court lady and her lessons were progressing well. She drove away the first teacher, but the second she respected, and so her knowledge continued apace.

Her parents were afraid of her, they doted on the baby. And Penarddun herself was glorious. A head full of curly blonde hair – even curlier than Crielle’s own – and eyes the colour of the deep sea. She laughed and was joyful, but Crielle doesn’t miss the fact that when Penarddun took her hand in her tiny, fat one, she tried to bend her fingers back painfully.

Crielle _beamed_ at her sister.

‘You and I are going to be close. Two peas in a pod, aren’t we, chwaer?’

Penarddun laughed with a cheerful roll not unlike a babbling brook.

Her parents were surprised. They had expected Crielle to be cruel; malicious even. To her own _sister._

Crielle found that so repellent, so disgusting, that she began to wonder if Penarddun might be better off being raised with Rhiamon, like her.

*

‘I thought I’d be jealous,’ Crielle admitted in the carriage compartment on the way back to the cottage.

‘Did you truly?’ Rhiamon said, smiling. ‘The curse isn’t all bad, my sweet. We love with so much strength, when we choose to love. I love you so much it burns me like a flame. I can forgive all your cruelty, and I get to enjoy the pleasure of your company. The curse doesn’t stop us from being incapable of love, it only makes us very selective about _who_ we love. It is difficult for us to truly respect others.’

‘Penarddun is beautiful,’ Crielle said dreamily. ‘Her nose is like a button, and her little fat fingers are like worms – but cute ones! And did you see she tried to hurt me?’

‘I did,’ Rhiamon said.

‘Nain, she doesn’t have my dra’ocht, does she?’

‘No, she does not.’

‘My parents must be relieved,’ Crielle said, her voice taking on a hard, contemptuous edge. ‘No glamour pushing at their inherent weaknesses. Not like you. You’re so strong, mam-gu.’

Rhiamon settled back in her carriage seat and offered a warm smile.

‘You slip back into a more open way of speaking when it’s just the two of us. I must say I like it. Your Court manners are impeccable, however. You’re going to whisper into the ear of the Oak King, one day.’

‘I’m going to _control_ that Court,’ Crielle said, her voice hardening in her excitement.

‘Yes, you are, my sweet,’ Rhiamon closed her eyes and the smile never quite left her face all the way back to the cottage.

*

She was trained by master poisoners in Rhiamon’s cottage. It was a precise artform and she enjoyed it. Her heartsong of malice sung whenever master poisoner Egon brought new herbs, new venoms for her to try. She has manufactured two new poisons all on her own.

One she called throatlack. Its first symptom causing the poisoned to slough and then cough up the lining of their own throat in a single, bloodied mess. It was disgusting and agonising, and her body quivered the first time she tried it on an underfae villager several kilometres away.

The second had no name until Egon decides it shall be called The Blue Sting. Tiny increments of venom harvested from deadly ivy bee hives and then combined with a blue poison from a toad in a country Crielle had never visited. The symptoms were straightforward. Spasms of agony eventually leading to death.

‘They scream even once they’re unconscious,’ Egon said, turning the tiny glass vial in his fingers carefully. He’d tested it himself after she gave him permission – he found the toad poison, after all.

‘Do they?’ Crielle breathed, gazing at the way her concoction caught the light. ‘Do they really?’

‘Do you like that, lady?’ Egon said.

They both knew the answer.

Thankfully Egon was Unseelie, good at keeping a secret, and had no interest in revealing the malicious heart of one of his most interesting and passionate students.

*

She’d thought she’d gone far enough away from the cottage. Thought that she’d been clever. The village wasn’t even marked on any maps and she’d claimed to be going on a day-trip to play croquet with several neighbours down the way.

She thought that she’d had her bases covered when she dropped the clear, tasteless poison into the villager’s well, heart beating in such anticipation that she felt a low pulse in her gut that was unfamiliar, new. A quickening.

She thought happily of the things she could teach Penarddun as she grew. She would be a good sister. Even though she’d only met her sister once, she thought of her every day and loved her fiercely. She wrote her letters and sent her pressed flowers and tokens that strangers and family friends gave her because they saw her beauty and thought she must be beautiful within.

That was the one thing she had going for her – the Seelie prided beauty so much that they were willing to overlook a great deal for a beautiful face.

Everything about Crielle was beautiful; and those that wouldn’t have found her appealing were rolled by the steady, convincing baseline of her glamour.

But her beauty didn’t come to her rescue when Rhiamon realised what she’d done.

She caught the thunderous look on Rhiamon’s face in the morning and avoided her. Rhiamon _knew._ She knew even though Crielle had avoided the village after, had left before anyone showed any symptoms – Crielle’s favourite part – and had gone to play croquet just as she’d said she would.

Her instincts told her to go to Rhiamon, to explain, to defend herself; but instead she held her silence. She was being taught that often it was more important to witness, observe, to see what other people brought to her attention.

That evening, opposite each other at the dinner table, Rhiamon put her knife and fork down neatly on her plate, lining up the fork tines with the tip of her knife. She reached out and twirled a rose where it rested in a clear, fluted vase.

‘You have to learn how to hide your desires, child,’ Rhiamon said, finally. ‘They will suspect.’

‘Will they?’ Crielle said, arching an eyebrow.

‘You were spotted, my sweet,’ Rhiamon said quietly, almost soothingly. ‘Your glamour attracts the attention of others. They see you, they remark upon your beauty, they _notice_ you. They asked what such a stunning, precious Seelie fae of Court status, in the clothing of a Court-admired lady, was doing amongst villages of underfae.’

‘But, Nain, I tried to-’

‘No, Crielle,’ Rhiamon said. ‘When you are revealed, it is better to be graceful, or to obfuscate with skill. Jumping to your own defense is as good as admitting your guilt.’

‘What will we do?’ Crielle said. ‘Did the whole village die?’

Her heart leapt at the thought.

Rhiamon eyed her carefully, before shaking her head.

‘You are being foolish and did not think this through. By the fourth death they realised the well was sickened and have defected to another village that will have them while a new well is built. The symptoms of the poison were…disturbing enough that some are claiming the village is cursed. I have turned minds to this outcome to take their thoughts off the beautiful girl that many of them saw while working their fields.’

Crielle smiled, satisfied, but minutes later she realised that Rhiamon was still disappointed, still upset with her.

‘Mam-gu,’ Crielle said before bed, ‘don’t fret. I’ll heed your advice, I promise.’

Rhiamon sighed, folded the squares of her knitting on her lap and looked up at Crielle where she stood framed by the doorway.

‘My sweet, I know you will.’

‘You’re still so unhappy,’ Crielle said, trailing her fingers down the doorframe. ‘Pray tell, would you grace me with the reason why?’

‘Ah, you are taking on those Court lessons, aren’t you? Listen to the way you speak.’

Crielle smiled, the expression tinged with a heaviness she couldn’t shake.

‘It is only that I worry you cannot control yourself, Crielle,’ Rhiamon said. ‘The curse is so strong with you, and it’s meant to end our family line. Its purpose – though we have fought against it – was to snuff us out. They will kill you, kill us all, if they realise the truth of us.’

‘Has no one ever suspected?’

For Crielle knew some of the deeds cruelly committed by her family line now. She understood that she was not the first to want to do such things to people and animals.

Rhiamon only shook her head and offered a small smile.

‘You are something else, my sweet. Now go and get some sleep, and we’ll talk more when you wake.’

Crielle went to bed chafing under the disappointment of her grandmother.

*

That year was to be a bracing one. Egon brought her flowers one morning before they made their poisons, and then leaned her over a table to kiss her struggling form, only coming to a halt when she scratched vicious lines down the front of his face. He raised a hand to strike her, and she smashed into him with her glamour, ruining his mind with self-hatred, loathing, disgust, until he turned his fingers on himself and gouged out his eyes.

She stood over him, breathing harshly, and did not let up until he had destroyed his brainstem, the upper part of his body a bloody, wrecked mess.

Rhiamon found her making poisons by the body, the nails on her left hand clean of blood, her lipstick back in place and unsmeared.

‘He molested me,’ Crielle said to the red liquid she dripped slowly into a vial, a flame burning carefully underneath it, keeping it at a consistent heat. She needed her concentration for this part. The chemistry in the construction of poisons was finicky. As it was, her nose felt scoured out from the fumes she’d been breathing for an hour.

‘Are you well?’ Rhiamon asked, stepping neatly over the body.

‘I believe I handled myself rather well, though I do not wish to touch the body.’

A gentle hand on her shoulder, and Crielle looked up at Rhiamon and offered a tight smile. Rhiamon returned it. The body was cleaned up by the servants who were paid well for their ability to keep silent. Things continued as normal, and the knowledge that she could look after herself was a hearth-glow in Crielle’s heart.

*

Rhiamon had to go away on assignment and Crielle decided to go home and see her sister. She missed Penarddun like a sharp ache. She fidgeted her hands in her lap in nervous excitement all the way back to her birthplace.

Penarddun waited – hair a mop of pale golden curls, eyes gleaming – on the front landing, and when Crielle stepped out of the carriage she didn’t even wait; running barefoot across the pale gravel of the An-Fnwy estate and leaping into Crielle’s arms. They laughed. Penarddun tried to twist her sister’s fingers back, and Crielle slipped her fingers into Penarddun’s armpits in response, tickling her. She pressed kisses to her sister’s face, surprised at the sheer strength of warm fire in her heart. It was like what she felt for Rhiamon, but brighter, stronger. It blazed.

‘I missed you,’ Penarddun whispered loudly. ‘You have to stay. Come stay. Mam and Dad are boring. Stay, please?’

‘Of course, chwaer, of course! I missed you too. We’re going to be so close, I can tell.’

‘Me too,’ Penarddun beamed, pressing her face against Crielle’s and clinging with her small arms. ‘Me too. Mam says you’re a naughty girl. I like being naughty.’

‘Darling,’ Crielle laughed, ‘you’ll learn to _love_ it.’

*

As long as she avoided her parents, the months she spent at the An-Fnwy estate were magical. She shared a special bond with Penarddun, who enjoyed inflicting pain on others even more than Crielle did, and taught her new ways to hurt others. They went through three servants in three months before Penarddun said – shamefaced – that she wasn’t allowed to do that anymore.

Crielle taught Penarddun how to use her glamour, her dra’ocht, to get what she wanted from others. Penarddun’s glamour wasn’t naturally strong, but it was still very persuasive, and together they gained a sweet-tasting control over an entire estate of people.

Her mam and dad had charms of their own now, and though they could not withstand direct attacks, they were no longer as swayed by her incessant, unconscious glamour.

She found them infuriating. They had never felt like real people to her and she found their presence useless.

On a Sunday evening, Penarddun and Crielle lay under the constellations and renamed them. Penarddun was a warm, soft weight curled into her side and Crielle had a protective arm around her.

‘Mam and Dad are puppets,’ Crielle whispered, and Penarddun rubbed her nose into Crielle’s ribs and then nodded quickly, rabbit-like.

‘They’re nothing.’

‘Nothing at all,’ Crielle said. ‘Vapour.’

‘A blank space where people should be.’

Penarddun laughed and then poked Crielle hard in the ribs. Crielle bit off the noise of pain and passed her palm over Penarddun’s hair.

‘You shouldn’t do that, Penny. We’ll need to give you a safe outlet. Perhaps we can get you into dog breeding. I once killed all of Dad’s hounds and he doesn’t keep them anymore. But dogs make the most delightful sounds when you hurt them.’

‘Oh, do they?’

‘Mm,’ Crielle said, smiling. ‘We’ll get you something with really soulful eyes. You can do what you like. Fae don’t care about animals being hurt as much as they do other fae, if you’re careful about it.’

*

She meant to wait a year, two years, but she could not wait two weeks.

They did not feel like her parents; Rhiamon had taught her so much. Her grandmother and her sister are her family.

*

Rhiamon reacted poorly to the death of her daughter, her son in-law.

Penarddun was unbothered by their deaths, holding Crielle’s hand to give her strength as they stood side by side before the wrath of their grandmother.

‘You act too freely, Crielle, and I have no place for you at my home anymore. You leave too much of a trail and I cannot clean up every one of your messes. You must clean this one up yourself. Take over the An-Fnwy estate and its holdings, until such point as I appoint you a suitable husband. You may continue your training with the Court, but I do not wish to see you until you can better control yourself.’

Crielle stared at her in surprise. Her chest hurt.

‘But, Nain…’

‘No, Crielle,’ Rhiamon said, her voice so soft it slew something good in Crielle’s heart. ‘You have killed my daughter. I know you hold no love of her in your heart; but I did. I would have hoped that your love of _me_ would have stayed your hand. But perhaps it is not the love I thought it was.’

Crielle hadn’t even considered that Rhiamon might be so upset. She looked nervously at Penarddun, holding her hand even tighter. Was her love lesser? Less real? It felt so real. It felt fierce and bold. It felt like a living, hungry fire.

‘Nain, I’m – I do apologise, I-’

‘I still love you,’ Rhiamon said, smiling weakly. ‘But I cannot bear to look upon your face. There are consequences to your actions; and so there have been consequences to these. You will continue to receive a generous monthly stipend to care for the servants, your sister, yourself. Do not let the An-Fnwy name down. And I hope for both your sakes, that you can avoid being discovered.’

With that, Rhiamon kissed them both on the forehand and left.

‘Now it’s just us,’ Penarddun whispered. ‘Isn’t it great?’

‘Yes, chwaer,’ Crielle said absently, watching her grandmother mount the carriage and close it without a glance over her shoulder.

She didn’t leave the driveway until well after the carriage had disappeared.

*

That night, while Penarddun slept beside her, Crielle sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her head in her hands, working hard to make sure that her cries were not audible, that her glamour would not paralyse her sister with grief. But she couldn’t control her dra’ocht, and when she heard Penarddun whimper in pain, she forced herself up and away, wandering through the corridors of her parent’s house, scrambling to think of what she might do even as she wished for the guiding hand of Rhiamon.

She couldn’t bring herself to be angry at her grandmother; and she seethed over it. That Rhiamon would doubt her love, when she couldn’t even bring herself to be angry over being abandoned.

The bodies of her parents had not yet been moved.

The inside of her chest felt like it had cracked. There was a vast hollow beneath it. A place where she had once felt stable, where a song had woven through her soul and spoken of the glory of malice and cruelty.

She stood over their still forms and her lips curled into a sneer.

They disgusted her. They were repellent. Even now, dirtying the floor of an estate that was now hers.

She looked around slowly.

Rhiamon had left her to manage things. She knew a little of managing an estate – Rhiamon had started teaching her, but she knew that she was going to have to present the appearance that all was going well to compensate for her lack of knowledge.

She’d need to find tutors, people to help her, people she could trust, who weren’t just destined to be worm-food.

Her hand pressed over the emptiness in her chest and her face was sticky with drying salt. She wiped at it, exhaling sharply. She pushed away fear and doubt, drew herself up taller, stared down at the people she’d never felt any connection to.

They were broken toys.

They needed to be thrown out.

*

She was dressed and presentable when there was a knock at the door. The bodies weren’t in the front foyer, but she was still wary. Her glamour rolled out thick and strong, waves of calming, convincing energy that she didn’t feel.

Penarddun was playing in the fields, likely looking for rabbits and other small animals to hunt. Penarddun was far more active and vicious than Crielle herself had ever been. Penarddun liked blood, violence, even found playing with dead bodies satisfying. Crielle didn’t appreciate mess, and had graduated past tormenting most animals long ago.

She swung the door open and stared at six unfamiliar, well-dressed fae. At their head, an aristocratic man with small facial scales the colour of fire opals. He smiled with his eyes, but his mouth was set in a frown.

‘Lady Crielle, what an honour to make your acquaintance. You are even lovelier than the rumours tell. I am Melchor the sixteenth, and this is my team. We have been hired by your esteemed grandmother to assist you in taking charge of the An-Fnwy estate and managing your proclivities. Is this amenable to you?’

‘My grandmother hired you?’ she said, sceptically.

‘Your grandmother wants the best for you, Lady Crielle. We are here to ensure that you get it.’

She stared him down, despite their height difference. She didn’t want to be taken in hand, she didn’t need to be _managed._

Melchor’s lips twitched, though they never eased into anything that might be called a smile.

‘Let me be explicit, Lady. We are here to ensure that you can continue to exercise your ‘appetites,’ while making certain that the front you present to the rest of the Seelie Court is one of perfection. To them, you shall be a paragon of loveliness and proper conduct, a victim of the untimely and tragic death of your parents. To us, you shall be yourself – we will find you…prey, if you will, and assist you in maintaining a _clean_ home.’

Crielle’s eyes widened. Rhiamon had told him everything then. Or if not everything then…enough.

Which meant Rhiamon trusted him.

Crielle couldn’t touch the bodies. She needed someone to help her, and she knew it was wrong to ask Penarddun to do it. Penarddun was only a child, after all, even if she didn’t care for them either.

‘My sister is similar to me,’ Crielle said quietly. ‘Can you give her the same protection?’

Melchor did smile. All of his teeth were sharp and very pointed. She wondered what he ate, what kind of fae he was. She could tell he was Seelie.

‘My Lady, let us prove ourselves to you. We are compensated very handsomely for what we do. You only need give us time, and we will acquit ourselves graciously.’

‘Then do so. There are two bodies in the house and I’d prefer them gone in a way that doesn’t place my sister’s lifestyle and my own in jeopardy.’

‘At once, my Lady,’ Melchor said, stepping past her as she moved back and allowed them entrance into her home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part of the story about Crielle. There are some new tags - pregnancy, difficult pregnancy, childbirth, mind control (via glamour), and sex aversion. 
> 
> Feedback is love - thanks to all who kudos'ed / and who'll comment! <3

And so Crielle’s education truly began. She was taken under the wing of the six fae that Rhiamon hired, who all – in some capacity – installed themselves as servants in her home, even though it was clear they held status and used to far more power. She wasn’t sure who they were, where they came from, how Rhiamon even knew about them – but they didn’t blink at her cruelty, were not phased by her predilections, and steered her through a frightening world.

The years ahead were difficult. Crielle’s heartsong changed to appearance, Melchor advising her to cultivate it to keep her protected and value self-discipline. He then helped her best nurture it so that it wouldn’t become toxic. All’eth became her personal attendant, helping her understand long-term investments, fashion choices, how to generate income and wealth, how to hire underfae servants who were unable to teleport and whose families could not easily track them, so that if she or Penarddun lost patience with them, their true nature of their deaths could be more easily hidden.

Melchor strongly advised her to move her poisons and her chemistry equipment into the basement. It was the cause of their largest disagreement.

‘This is respectable work!’ Crielle said, pointing at the autoclave, centrifuge, other equipment she’d repurposed from the human world, purchased from the fae world, engineered herself. They’d been disagreeing with each other for over an hour. It was the first time either one of them hadn’t backed down.

‘Lady Crielle, we have allowed this to go on for too long. I understand that you cannot stop this entirely, but you _must_ understand how this will appear to others.’

‘They don’t even know they’re poisons. No one comes in here! They-’

‘As we manoeuvre you into better positions in the Court environment, you will start holding many meetings and parties here, and fae wander. It is our nature.’

‘I’ll put a magical lock on-’

‘Lady Crielle, with all due respect, locks can be broken by some fae.’

Crielle looked over the huge workshop she’d developed. Some of the poisons were still being distilled, experiments still in progress; they’d be destroyed if they were moved. They represented months of work.

‘A year,’ Crielle said, her voice hardening. ‘Give me a year and I’ll move it.’

Melchor opened his mouth to protest and then he looked over the chemistry that was taking place and his lips pressed together.

‘It will cause some delays.’

‘Then cause them,’ she said, her voice smoothing as she took a deep breath, settled herself. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to see my sister.’

*

Years trickled on by. First one or two, then a decade, on and on, and her life was envied, respectable, she was one of the most powerful people in the Oak King’s Court and beloved by many. She’d been trained properly in her glamour now, and developed new techniques with the dra’ocht all the time. She knew how to play not only individuals, but an entire crowd. She had manipulated over a thousand people with success. She worked now on targeting individuals in a crowd. She could work her glamour over one or two, but to be able to target twenty or thirty at the same time, while everyone else was unsuspecting…?

She’d never read of anyone else being able to do it.

_I’m going to be the first._

Penarddun matured into a vivacious Lady. She visited the Court far less frequently, but was still well-respected. They both moved into positions of increased wealth and political success. The An-Fnwy family had always whispered into the ears of the Seelie Kings and Queens, but now – thanks to her glamour and the work of the advisors in her home – Crielle enjoyed an unprecedented level of influence.

Some nights, particularly when the jasmine bloomed in the evening, or she smelt lavender clinging to the weft of her sheets, she thought of Rhiamon. She wondered how her grandmother fared. She didn’t extend contact, knowing it was unwelcome. It ached in her chest, caused her heart to hurt. Those nights she had to be careful of her glamour, folding it into herself like a giant-winged bird, too large for her skin.

*

Crielle learned to teleport at three hundred and seven, a little late for a Court fae, but then she used her dra’ocht to do it and it wasn’t a common technique. She had to step into a glamour of her making, which would convince the recipient that they were in an entirely new location. It meant she had to be receptive to her own glamour and there was a knack to weaving it just right.

She learned it not a moment too soon. There were some growing suspicions regarding the number of servants that had gone missing at the An-Fnwy estate, and it was getting harder to hire staff.

It didn’t help while Crielle _did_ practice restraint where she could, Penarddun let her appetites run wild.

Only a week before, Crielle had been called into one of the marble-tiled rooms where Penarddun liked to torture – easy to clean, to wash blood off the walls and floor; and sometimes the ceiling.

A maid waited, already bleeding from tiny knife slashes along her forearms, her upper arms, her belly. The room smelled coppery thick with it. Crielle’s nose wrinkled, and she knew the soles of her shoes already had little droplets of blood on them.

‘What did this one do?’ Crielle said, and Penarddun grinned her pearl-like teeth and stroked her fingers through the maid’s hair.

‘She’s been late three times, chwaer. _Three_ times!’

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I won’t ever-’

‘Please be quiet,’ Crielle said, exasperated. ‘Do not speak unless spoken to, creature. If you didn’t wish to endure such treatment, perhaps you should have been punctual. Yes?’

The maid was silent. Even her trembling was silent.

‘Do you want to watch?’ Penarddun whispered, and Crielle looked at the armchair in the corner of the room. Her blood quickened. Penarddun was so considerate.

‘What a lovely sister I have,’ Crielle said, walking over and sitting, crossing her legs just so. ‘You may, of course, continue.’

Penarddun was careful not to get any sprays of blood on Crielle’s dress, knowing how she hated it, and the afternoon had progressed in a relaxing manner. At least for the two of them. In the end they’d ended up with another maid to dispose of, and Melchor had given Crielle a stern look which meant that – at some point – a lecture was coming about their lack of control.

Teleportation meant that she could go to far reaches of the land and find people to kill there, without ever having to bring them to the An-Fnwy estate. And her dra’ocht meant that they would never know who she was.

For a few centuries she began to travel a great deal. It had the pleasing benefit of making her quite worldly, and allowing her to pick up many more languages.

That, in turn, put her in a better position with the Oak King.

*

Rhiamon started sending correspondence after a millennium had passed. Crielle was overjoyed to receive the parchment, to smell its herbal scent. She wrote a response immediately, then realised it would be more decorous to wait a day or two.

The letter dealt with matters of the state, it said very little that was personal.

But Rhiamon ended it with:

_All my love – you know you’ve always had my heart, my dear.  
Rhiamon. _

They began to correspond on a regular basis. Penarddun often posting little replies to add to the envelopes, usually asking whether Rhiamon had picked any suitors that were suitable for them both as yet. Crielle cared little about arranged marriage. She wanted to consolidate her wealth with a strong family, but many of those she had met in the Court hadn’t been viable. Those with wealth didn’t have the right disposition for her to want to do anything more to them than torment them. Those that seemed to match her proclivity for cruelty – barely enough to satisfy her – were not good strategic choices.

She found the whole thing rather tedious.

Penarddun, however, talked of falling in love. She spoke of handsomeness and the comeliness of other fae. She had already kissed many, had sex, enjoyed herself. She was forward with her body and possessive of the bodies of others, whether in sexual congress, murder or torture. Her playful face, golden curls, sparkling blue eyes hid a predatory creature that was never happier than when supping on tea cakes while blood was still packed tight beneath her painted fingernails.

Crielle’s heartsong complicated her already fastidious nature. She had never liked blood on her hands, she had never liked sweat or the other many juices of the body. Even her own saliva disgusted her when she noticed it as drool on her pillow. Bad enough, but with a core energy of appearance, she suddenly became far more concerned with presenting herself as well-composed to others at all times. Sex did not lend itself to composure. Nor did hands-on torture or violence or murder.

She knew she would have to have sex eventually. And when the time came she would have to try and trick herself into realising that it was _right_ to appear as mussed and rumpled and…well fucked to one’s husband when trying to procreate. Perhaps that might work. Sometimes she tricked her core energy similarly when playing with Penarddun. Sisters were _supposed_ to be a little tangled up together. But she could never get away with such tricks for longer than an hour or two, always driven back to smoothing her clothing, restyling her hair, using glamour to appear perfectly in place.

But she didn’t care much about beauty beyond recognising that it was a spectrum of what she found acceptable and unacceptable. When manipulating others with her glamour, she reached into their energy and tricked them into thinking she was glorious by their standards. She wasn’t sure how it worked, she didn’t care. She had caskets overflowing with jewellery and gifts from those who simply wanted to celebrate how she appeared. It was delightful.

Every now and then she went into the human world, but she got bored with their slavishness, their utter mindlessness when in her presence. She destroyed a few, but they were even less entertaining than the stories had led her to believe.

She’d asked Melchor about it.

‘Glamour is first and foremost a defensive mechanism to protect fae from humans, as you know,’ Melchor said, scratching at his opalescent scales, trailing a finger down to his chin thoughtfully. ‘Of course your own glamour, being what it is, simply blasts their will from their minds. You’d have quite a career in world domination on the human side, were you ever interested, my Lady.’

‘Uninterested,’ Crielle observed blandly, and walked away.

Why would she want _that?_ It would be no better than ruling a world of boring dogs.

Instead, she spent what little free time she had refining her chemistry, wearing face masks to protect her skin and her airways. She constructed new poisons, improved old ones, created those suited for large-scale poisoning, small-scale envenomation. She specialised in poisons that seeped into skin, that were especially suited to being daubed on the tips of arrows and swords and daggers. She gave them all thoughtful, elegant names: the raven’s kiss, black dauphine, heartsbane, the vine of winter’s sorrow.

The names often belied the gruesome, exacting ways they took their deaths from their prey.

Crielle marketed to enthusiasts, and then small, private militaries, until finally she stood before the Oak King himself after he’d requested a private audience with her.

She curtseyed before his thick, imposing form. He looked down at her from a throne that was made of living tree. His bright green eyes the colour of new oak leaves appeared above a bushy beard and moustache that hid acorns and twigs that grew from his very flesh.

‘Is it supposed to be a secret?’ the Oak King said finally. ‘Because it’s not a very well kept one.’

‘Your Majesty, my fine King, I have no idea of what you speak,’ Crielle said, lifting her eyes and resisting a smirk. They both knew exactly what was happening; but Crielle liked the game of it.

‘You’re a poisoner,’ the Oak King said bluntly, and Crielle’s eyebrows rose, her lips pulled together just so.

‘I am?’

‘Lady Crielle, you’re one of our finest Courtiers; _the_ finest if one listens to reputation. I’d like to keep it that way. You’re an asset to the Court, an asset to my _ears_ with the information you bring me.’

‘I’m honoured you think so, Your Majesty,’ Crielle said, looking down, demure.

‘The War General doesn’t know yet, and quite a few others don’t, but you’re not my only informant and you’re not as subtle as you think you are. If you want to protect this… _hobby_ of yours, I’d suggest following two pieces of advice.’

Crielle waited, meeting his gaze levelly.

‘First, no more _villages._ Second, you’ll run all finalised poisons by _me.’_

‘Your Majesty?’ Crielle said, faint surprise in her voice. That was genuine; not a game.

‘You know very well that alongside honour, duty, beauty, love, the Seelie fae are also canny military strategists. One cannot rule the world on love alone, that’s a certainty. If you’re killing off villages, I believe I’d like to add those poisons to our arsenal so that we might further weaken the Unseelie; plague that they are upon us.’

‘Indeed,’ Crielle smiled. ‘You’ve noticed too? They seized the Falcon Archipelago. I was most distressed to learn of our Seelie brethren and their fates. _Most_ distressed.’

The Oak King’s eyes widened and he leaned forwards in his chair. Crielle’s blood raced. She enjoyed this part. Just enough information that he would take the bait and-

‘That was _you?’_

‘You should know I care a great deal for this Court, these people. Why, I am not Queen material, no, but I think of these people as my own. I cannot help but have certain martial connections with my _interests,_ and when I heard of the seizure of the Falcon Archipelago and what those monsters were doing to my…to my _kin,_ I just _had_ to act. The Seelie Court Military being away, as they were, on assignment elsewhere. Did I-’ She allowed her voice to tremble. Once. ‘Did I do the wrong thing?’

‘Can we speak candidly? I’m probably asking the wrong person that question,’ the Oak King muttered. ‘Look, Crielle, you’re valuable to the Court, but you’re a risk. You think you can play me, but you forget I am King and I _allow_ myself to be played by you. It is an enjoyable meeting of the minds whenever I engage with you, even as I know you wish to elicit certain reactions from me. But, despite all the danger you present to us, you are a fascinating woman, a powerful one. I _want_ you here. I’m not the kind of King to drive away my peers because they threaten me, do you understand?’

‘Indeed yes,’ Crielle said, smiling. ‘Though if we _are_ speaking so candidly, perhaps you might tell me exactly what you want of me.’

‘I want you to stay in an influential position in this Court and do better at hiding your destruction, and I want access to some of those poisons. It’s the damned curse, isn’t it?’

Crielle stared at him.

‘What?’ the Oak King laughed from his belly. ‘You think I’m a _total_ idiot? You’re not the first An Fnwy woman to have power in this Court, and forests willing, nor will you be the last. No, I’ve been in power a _long_ time, and I have gained the confidence of some of your bloodline. Oh, but it does feel good to surprise _you,_ Crielle.’

She rolled her eyes lightly, her lips lifted in a half-smile.

‘I always did appreciate your wiliness, Your Majesty,’ Crielle said, and the Oak King smiled.

‘Oh well, we need something to pass the time, don’t we? I forget how young you are sometimes. You behave like a far older fae. Well! That sorts it then. We can protect you, but you should do better protecting _yourself_ , dear. Lie low for a few hundred years. It seems a long time now, but-’

‘Mm, no,’ Crielle interjected. ‘Not that long, my fine King. I know how these things work, and I plan on putting many millennia behind me and many more again. I shall do as you say. Melchor will be pleased.’

Their conversation waned to other, smaller matters, and Crielle turned the information she’d gathered over in her mind.

She could certainly stand to play it safer.

Besides, she was coming into her own as a socialite. Perhaps that’s where her attention needed to be for a while.

*

Years trickled by and the An Fnwy estate became a social estate, hosting many functions. Crielle acquitted herself as one of the best hosts the Seelie Court had ever seen – though it took some centuries to learn all that she needed. She researched, read books, tinkered away at poisons, spent time with her sister when she was home and not gallivanting around the countryside.

She cultivated an interest in flora and gardening. She wouldn’t garden herself, exactly, but she became very sure of what plants she did and did not want in her garden. And if half the species growing were poisonous variants of normally harmless varieties, well – if she didn’t tell, no one would know.

Life passed by in a relatively uneventful decade or two – soirees, functions, parties – and then there would come a short period of time where drama occurred. A murder not hidden adequately and suspicions raised. Penarddun slaughtering someone she shouldn’t. Waiting longer than usual for a letter from Rhiamon, not knowing if she’d said something in the previous that would cause a second abandonment. And then another few decades would pass – peaceful, easy, the Seelie Court enjoying a position of power and wealth and she at the helm of its Courtiers.

Time flowed like a river. Upsets came and went, but the rest of the time she moved along in its current and came to learn what other fae talked about once they’d put several thousand years behind them.

It was never boring. There was always something to learn, something new to do, some skill to revisit.

Time was one of her few friends.

*

Penarddun was called away to meet a suitor – a young fae named Euroswydd – at least two thousand years younger than Penarddun, with a strong military career behind him already.

When they both returned to the An Fnwy estate, it was obvious they loved each other. Crielle expected to feel jealous and was surprised to feel nothing but a pleased, touched happiness for her sister’s evident joy.

‘He’s brilliant!’ Penarddun said that evening, while Euroswydd explored the estate. ‘Fucks like a champion, though nothing’s taken yet, you know. Nothing in the womb.’ She patted her belly absently. ‘I want children, chwaer. Babies! He seems a little less excited about that, but he’ll be away on campaigns most of the time anyway. Imagine that, a house with you and me, our children. Doesn’t it sound perfect?’

‘It sounds interesting,’ Crielle smiled.

‘Nain says this is gonna make us _filthy_ rich,’ Penarddun breathed.

‘Oh, did she?’ Her voice was amused, but her face felt frozen.

It was something of a sore spot that Rhiamon still refused to see her after all this time. They might be corresponding, the messages might even seem heartfelt, but she hadn’t laid her eyes upon her grandmother’s face for so long she was starting to forget exactly what she looked like, even with a portrait hanging in the estate.

‘Nain’ll see you soon, you’ll see. I promise, chwaer. Don’t be sad.’

‘I’m not sad, little thing,’ Crielle murmured, then paused when she felt fingers on her shoulder. She turned from the parchments she was looking over, and Penarddun leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

‘You’ve let your dra’ocht get out of control, just a little,’ Penarddun whispered.

She folded those great big wings of glamour back into her body and sighed.

‘I would simply appreciate it if she’d come to the estate again. Soon. I think we’ve made a lovely home. I think we do…what we’re supposed to be doing.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Penarddun shrugged. ‘But we did kind of off her kid.’

Crielle offered Penarddun something of a weak smile.

‘If you hadn’t of done it, I would’ve,’ Penarddun added, eyebrows quirking together. ‘Come along. Delphine has made marchpane. Little painted fruits of them. She’s showing off for Euroswydd. Because he’s so comely. Oh, I’m so glad he’s mine! Nain made such a great choice for me. I’m sure she’s going to pick someone wonderful for you.’

‘We’ll see,’ Crielle said, though she took her sister’s hand and ended up running through the estate, shoving her heartsong aside and allowing herself to get caught up in her sister’s joy.

*

_My dear Crielle,_

_I have found someone who I think is a very suitable match for you, though of course you are welcome to disagree! Lludd Llaw Eraint comes from a respectable line, his father is a god in the upperworlds, and his siblings are all approaching god status. You have likely heard of him. He spends most of his time abroad, sailing a private navy. He’s in a fine position to become the next War General for the Oak King. I think you’ll find that with a heartsong of ruthlessness, he may share some of your predilections for darker appreciations in life._

_Give him a fair chance, my bird. He will come to visit you in spring. Do advise me of your thoughts regarding this pairing, once you’ve met him and allowed him some of your time._

_Should all go well, I shall attend your bonding ceremony. It is time to find a new accord between us, don’t you think?_

_All my love, fy aderyn cryf,  
Rhiamon. _

*

The smell of the sea clung to his deep blue suit, the black curls of his short hair. Even the blue of his eyes resembled shallow seas rather than the deeper ones reflected in the darker blue of the An Fnwy line. He stood, far taller than she, arms behind his back so that his chest pushed outwards, standing at attention. He had a calculating gaze, a way of looking at her and the estate as though he was assessing it for its practical merits.

Here was none of the joy and vivaciousness of Euroswydd and Penarddun.

Lludd Llaw Eraint looked her up and down, then met her eyes.

‘Well,’ he said.

‘You might come in,’ she said lightly, stepping back and waving him into her home, watching the way he walked like he was dissecting the tiles with his feet.

He looked around, turned back to her.

‘Is there somewhere private we may speak?’ he said.

There was something faintly awkward about him, though she couldn’t pick what it was, when everything he had done so far had been – at least in her measure – fine. She inclined her head and walked deeper into the estate, listening to him slow his steps to match hers. She wondered what it might be like to live with him, to sleep by his side. She was momentarily glad that the sea would call him back, time and time again.

‘There are no mews here,’ he said, ‘are there?’

‘No, Lord Eraint.’

‘Call me Lludd,’ he clipped off. ‘I need mews. I am a falconer. I hunt.’

‘These are marvellous lands for hunting, Lludd,’ Crielle said, opening the door to a more private, recessed library. Melchor had been following nearby with a tray of liquor and two ornate glasses. He walked in quickly and set it down on the table, then met Crielle’s eyes briefly as he left.

She was grateful for his presence nearby, even as she closed the door on him and the rest of the estate. She watched as Lludd walked over and poured her a glass before pouring his own.

_He knows basic etiquette, at least. I can work with that._

She was holding her glamour back from him, wanted to see what he would do without its influence. He smoothed his suit, sat down and watched her.

‘Here’s what I want,’ he said. ‘I want to consolidate the power of my family with a lineage that is better suited to the leisurely side of the Seelie fae. You would know far better than I just how powerful it is to be a Courtier of fine standing, and this is something I can never hope to achieve. I want the freedom to man my military, my navy, return home and know that the estate will run just fine without me – something I know from research you are well-equipped to do. I am not a romantic. I am not a soft person. If you are looking for someone who might dote upon you, I am not that man.’

She had sat down during his speech, and now sipped at the liquor, the glass cold against her lips. She placed the glass back down and rolled her glamour out towards him, wrapped it around him.

He startled, visibly.

‘Don’t do that,’ he snapped. ‘Not without my permission.’

‘Could you stop me?’ she said softly. ‘Are you so hard a creature that you would _try?’_

‘We’re off to a wonderful start,’ he said, and Crielle’s lips revealed bright teeth as she smiled.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m enjoying this game.’

She was surprised to find that she was. She didn’t want romance. She didn’t want a soft man. She didn’t really want _anyone._

But she didn’t disdain him, and that was a good start.

*

Lludd Llaw Eraint was arrogant, self-composed, a fierce and determined creature that talked in strategy, politics, assets. His hobbies were few – hunting and the sea. She could tell he was sensitive over his siblings becoming gods when it was likely he wasn’t, no matter how long he lived. She saw an unbending strength in his gaze.

But she knew she liked him when she saw him reprimand his own coachman in a harsh voice, snapping words at him like a whip until the fae cowered and practically fell over himself to correct some tiny detail in the lines of leather connecting the horses to the carriage.

When he turned back, he seemed surprised at what he saw in her expression. Then he smiled, something ruthless and cold causing a curl of tentative pleasure to move through her.

She had been keeping her glamour back from him, as he’d requested – aside from the small background drone of it that was ever present – and she was pleased to see the way his favour turned to her without it.

Even a fool could realise how much power the An Fnwy estate could carry if it consolidated with the fae military.

And with Lludd Llaw Eraint being seriously considered as the next War General, it could even put her in the rare position of possibly becoming Queen.

Not that she particularly wanted it, but…

There was an appeal all the same.

Still, the scrutiny wouldn’t do. Balancing her secret appetites with her public face was a fine dance, a funambulism that required delicate steps.

With Lludd away at sea, life would continue the same as it ever did. Crielle would wield more power to cover up any mistakes she or Penarddun might make, and Lludd would have the power and support of the finest Courtier in the Seelie Court behind him.

Later in the week:

‘You really don’t need what your sister needs, what some other fae need, do you?’

‘Do you mean love?’ Crielle laughed. ‘Don’t mistake me, my dear. I _do_ need it. Just not from you.’

‘You may have it all the same,’ Lludd said, flushing pink, something abashed in his heavy features. He ran an absent hand through his hair and then offered a hard smile. ‘In the interest of honesty, there’s one more thing you should know.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I am used to getting my way. With violence. It has…put partners of mine in poor positions in the past, even though I also warned them of the same. I have a rather uncompromising heartsong, and I am not interested in changing it. I need to know you can handle that.’

‘Handle it?’ Crielle laughed. ‘Violence? Darling, if you ever so much as raise a fist to me because you do not like something I am doing, I think you might find yourself rather shocked by what I can do.’

And with that she smashed into him with her glamour, savouring the way his eyes widened in surprise before she completely overwhelmed his personality, his autonomy. She blasted through his defences and left him dazed and shaking, having run him through with emotions of self-doubt, guilt, _remorse._ Things she rarely felt herself, but could manufacture in others.

He stared up at her. He’d fallen onto the chair, fingers digging into the blue of the fabric. They could both hear the rasp of his breath, and she almost laughed.

‘I know what you are,’ Crielle purred. ‘But it will take time for you to learn what sort of creature _I_ am.’

*

Of course it wasn’t as easy as all that. Lludd procured charms to protect himself from the worst of her glamour – she’d clearly disturbed him with her action. However, he also treated her personal space with respect. Whenever they disagreed, Lludd deferred to her unless the matters regarded hunting or the military. Since they were areas of expertise that Crielle had found little time to master, she tended to defer to him anyway.

He wanted to develop areas of the estate for orchards, farming, and wanted more extensive kennels, stables and mews. But ultimately she felt these were all wise decisions provided he left her gardens alone. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford to start developing the An Fnwy estate in such a way, and she thought it would be good for her and Penarddun’s children to learn to hunt in different ways, to gain an appreciation for the bounty of a harvest.

She continued to send her poisons and venoms to the Oak King, and Lludd learned the lay of the estate while still allowing Crielle to run it. It was clear he had the competence to run a large household, but he showed no particular interest beyond a concern that things work as efficiently as possible.

Crielle ran an efficient household.

Lludd and Penarddun didn’t see eye to eye immediately.

‘He’s a stick in the mud,’ Penarddun said flatly. ‘I suppose you like that?’

They lay side by side on the grass in the gardens, pointing up at stars and renaming them all. Penarddun was giving them the names she wanted to give her children; she and Euroswydd had started trying – they’d bought charms and potions and more – and Crielle’s heart skipped beats to think of it.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about having children, but she knew how she felt about _Penarddun_ having children.

‘I like his power. He’s interesting,’ Crielle said. ‘It was never going to be like you and Euroswydd. My love is more…selective, I suspect.’

That said, she had written back to Rhiamon saying that she respected him, and she thought they would be a good match, and she concurred with her choice.

They were to be bonded in ceremony.

She’d get to see her grandmother again. That knowledge felt like sparks flying inside of her.

‘I care more about immediately family. _Certain_ members.’

‘Me,’ Penarddun said, wriggling happily. ‘Mam-gu.’

‘That’s all,’ Crielle sighed. ‘Perhaps All’eth and Melchor. That is a strange affection. They have been by my side for so long, and they are unwavering in their support.’

‘Melchor kind of scares me,’ Penarddun said.

‘Yes, well, you never quite reign yourself in enough for Melchor’s liking. I still think he looks on you like one might a child.’

‘He just doesn’t know the pleasure of digging fingers into viscera.’

‘Actually, I rather suspect he does,’ Crielle laughed. ‘I think he’s _old,_ that one. I think he’s lived a very interesting life.’

Penarddun made a scoffing noise and placed the flower crown she’d been making half across Crielle’s face and half across the top of her head. Crielle tutted, reached up and adjusted it. The flowers were blue and white, very pretty. She wondered if Penarddun knew that they were poisonous if ingested.

‘I want a girl,’ Penarddun said. ‘ _Girls._ Maybe a boy. I don’t know! I think I’d be happy either way? All of us living together in the same house. I love it here. I sometimes think how things would’ve been different; you just coming to visit _sometimes._ Mam and dad never really liked you. They wanted to like you, but it wasn’t the same as real like.’

‘The feeling was mutual,’ Crielle said quietly.

‘Mam-gu doesn’t get it.’

‘Do you think?’ Crielle turned to her side, feeling pensive. ‘I think _we_ are the ones who do not understand, Penny. You never think about the curse?’

‘Don’t care,’ Penarddun said. ‘Why do you care? Oh, I know. I know you miss mam-gu, honest. I don’t mean to be so…you know, dismissive. I just don’t know why you care so much, chwaer. _Really._ Mam-gu’s coming to the bonding ceremony, it’s going to be alright.’

They shared a smile, and Penarddun’s arm shot up in a flash.

‘That one! That one! Make a wish, Crielle!’

The old fae ritual. Crielle turned her head to see the shooting star and laughed softly.

‘Not that one,’ Crielle murmured. ‘That one’s yours, dear.’

Penarddun screwed up her face, her button nose, while she wished, and Crielle couldn’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss the bump of it; making them both laugh.

*

Crielle startled awake as she was roughly shaken. Her eyes flew open, she pushed herself upright, moving stray locks of hair out of the way. She felt prickles of uneasiness.

_It is normal to appear ruffled upon waking, therefore, this is fine._

Her heartsong dulled, muted, but it wouldn’t for long.

Then she realised it was Penarddun and took in the excitement gleaming in her eyes, the way her teeth shone in the dark.

‘What is it? A servant has done something?’

‘No, _no!’_ Penarddun hissed. She shook Crielle again, even though she was awake and sitting up. Crielle hissed. ‘It took! It took! Just now! It took!’

Crielle blinked at her, groggy after being disturbed in the middle of her sleep cycle. She only needed to sleep every few days, but when she did, she slept deeply.

‘Took?’ Crielle repeated.

‘Darling, you’re going to be an _aunt!_ I could tell as soon as it took. I could _tell._ The books and mam-gu all said you just _knew_ but I didn’t realise it would be like _this.’_

Crielle wanted to ask if she was sure, but she knew that Penarddun was. She felt a slow, strange warmth in her body bringing gooseflesh to her skin, making her cheeks and ears warm.

‘An aunt,’ Crielle said slowly, ‘and you a mother.’

‘To a son!’ Penarddun squeaked.

‘This calls for a celebration, I think. Do you want to invite Euroswydd?’

‘No, I mean later, _yes_ , but…he understands that I need to share this with you.’

Crielle thought of Lludd in his separate bedroom nearby and shook her head, smiling.

‘There are things that are ours alone, yes?’

Though, as she went with Penarddun to the gardens outside, she thought that really, there was one other person who this moment belonged to. Neither of them mentioned her name, but they felt the space of her, and emptiness by their sides.

*

Penarddun took to pregnancy with an enthusiasm that made her laugh all the way through the mess of morning sickness, even as Crielle looked on with revulsion. She constantly touched her belly, she celebrated with friends, she slept plenty and ate well. Euroswydd doted on her – a pleasant force in Penarddun’s life that kept her spirits lifted.

It was, Crielle thought, all very idyllic.

She was quite sure it wouldn’t be exactly the same for her, but she wanted to bury her fingers in just a small amount and grab it for herself. If Penarddun was the lake of happiness, then all Crielle wanted was a couple of handfuls to clutch to her heart.

So she followed Penarddun around quietly, observed the rising flush in her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled more than usual. Even her glamour – never that strong to begin with – got stronger. Her voice became more musical.

Lludd was a background figure; someone who was often away hunting whenever he was at the estate. Oh, he managed things well enough when he was present, but he was a quiet, stoic force where the rest of them had always been associated with camaraderie and laughter. He had no time for flower crowns, he was impatient at functions – unless they ended with drinking or hunting or the discussion of politics. He performed his roles well enough, but he lacked a capacity for pleasure which left him orbiting the three of them.

Crielle sat next to Penarddun where she was half-curled on her bed after a particularly violent bout of illness that had left her throat bloody. Crielle stroked her hair with the backs of her manicured fingers, and watched the laboured rise of her chest. It must hurt, but then Penarddun showed the same interest in pain that Rhiamon had, and it never seemed to bother her as much as it should.

‘I was thinking…Gwydion,’ Penarddun said, a lazy, tired smile in her voice.

‘Mm,’ Crielle said, in approval. ‘What else?’

‘Nisien, perhaps.’

‘Oh, yes, I like that very much. Or _Ef_ -nisien,’ she laughed softly.

Penarddun stilled, and Crielle thought she may have mis-stepped.

But then her hand came up and rested on Crielle’s side, fingers curling.

‘Do you know, chwaer, I think you may have just named my son.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Crielle’s laugh was a chime around them.

‘Efnisien,’ Penarddun tested it in her mouth and then pressed closer, a sluggishness in her limbs. The pregnancy was beginning to take its toll. Common fae pregnancies became more and more taxing as time progressed, as magic and ability was stolen from the mother and funnelled into the child. Penarddun was not full of power to begin with, the glamour that had grown at the beginning of her pregnancy was already fast dwindling. ‘I’m so glad you’re with me, chwaer.’

‘Always. Always and a day.’ Crielle pushed a lock of Penarddun’s hair behind her ear, tidying it absently.

‘Do you worry?’

‘About what, chwaer?’

‘The curse? What if it skips them? Our children? What if we don’t love th-’

‘Hush,’ Crielle said, pushing Penarddun with her glamour, lulling her with calm.

Penarddun eased into sleep and Crielle felt faintly abashed; she hadn’t meant to push so hard, hadn’t realised just how susceptible Penarddun had become.

But it was something she thought of as well, and she was curious to see what Efnisien would be like when he arrived into their world.

*

The bonding ceremony was a grandiose affair; over two thousand guests and a heavily pregnant Penarddun only leaving her sister’s side to lean against Euroswydd.

There was only one guest Crielle cared for, and her heart fluttered fast wings inside of her, brushing the ends of her ribcage, stirring up all sorts of feelings that left the guests jittery and agitated until she realised what she was doing. There were times when – even now – she didn’t always have her dra’ocht completely under her control. She whispered to that great bird inside of herself, folded cushions of energy around it until the nerves were hers and hers alone.

Lludd was no idiot, understanding that she was not so much looking forward to being bonded to him, as she was looking forward to seeing her grandmother again _._ He was unworried, unruffled, accepted Crielle’s ways with barely so much as a blink. He was tied first and foremost to the sea, and she could feel him like an albatross soaring around her. He loved her – she was certain of it – but he ached to be abroad. He wanted the bonding complete so that he might sail once more.

She didn’t wish to hold him back.

She wanted to wait down where the guests were arriving, but this was her bonding day and she had to look the part. Costuming and preparation had begun days before. She’d stopped working with poisons three months earlier to make sure her skin was in as perfect condition as it could be. She worked it with milks, unguents, sticky saps that lay over her face, itching her as she tried to sleep. She soaked her hands and strengthened her nails. Her sister massaged tonics and thick creams into her hair.

The dress alone had cost more than a small fortune, sparkling with the subtle blue of faceted topaz, woven with threads from the fine, tiny pearl silkworms that fed upon the aureum trees of Kiena. With only three hundred trees left in the world, and only fifty of the silkworms, the fabric itself was not only expensive, but thought of as possessing legendary powers.

Mostly, it felt soft against her skin.

‘Ah, my darling, look at how spectacular you have become. How exquisite.’

Crielle’s breath caught high in her throat and she spun as she affixed an earring, fingers working automatically even as she stared at Rhiamon.

‘You did come,’ Crielle said, breathless. ‘After so long, I didn’t know if…’

Her voice broke, and Crielle blushed to allow such ugliness, such imperfection on a day like _today._ She hadn’t intended it, but there it was. For a moment she struggled with her heartsong, convinced it that such a reaction was an appropriate appearance to present.

‘I would have come earlier,’ Rhiamon said, eyes crinkling in a bittersweet smile. ‘Perhaps I should have, but I am here now. And you have grown into a powerful Lady.’

Crielle offered one of her brightest smiles, and walked gracefully into Rhiamon’s open arms.

‘You’ve made a fine home for yourself and your sister,’ Rhiamon said, arms enfolding her lightly, remembering – even now – that Crielle did not like tight embraces.

‘Nain, my wise one, I only tried to make it the home you wished it would be.’

Rhiamon pushed one of Crielle’s curls back into place and sighed.

‘I missed you too, fy aderyn cryf.’

*

That evening, while guests made use of the grounds and manor alike, All’eth informed her that Rhiamon was leaving early.

Crielle excused herself as quickly as she was able from those she was talking to, and barely made it to the side of the carriage in time, her skirts plucked up in her hands, her shoes not meant to rest upon so much gravel. Rhiamon saw her, halted the coach-driver and leaned from the window, something unreadable on her face.

‘Were you not informed? We have rooms for you. Were they not to your liking?’ Crielle said, eyebrows pulling together. She had given them the most thorough attention; every one, even though Rhiamon was likely to only use one, given she’d spent most of her life in her smaller, humbler cottage.

‘It is harder for me to be here than I thought, my dear,’ Rhiamon said. Crielle saw the weariness now, the strain of it in her features, and wished to be able to do something more than just stand there. She would use her glamour to push away all of Rhiamon’s grief, all of her sadness – but Rhiamon wore charms, and Crielle couldn’t do that to her anyway.

‘You are not going to return again, are you? I can see it in your eyes.’

‘No, I think this will be the last time I lay eyes on the An Fnwy estate.’

‘But you are _AnFnwy,’_ Crielle entreated. ‘You are Rhiamon ferch AnFnwy, are you not?’

Rhiamon shifted in the carriage and slipped her hand through the small window, her elbow resting on carved wood. Crielle placed her fingers within Rhiamon’s, and their hands squeezed around one another.

‘Did it hurt you so much?’ Crielle’s voice was soft. She knew that it did. ‘You would never visit this place again? Us? Your _grandchildren?’_

‘You may visit me, my dear. Whenever you like. Just send a letter to let me know, and my cottage will be open to you. Pass my apologies onto your sister for my quick departure. And oh, my bird, how glorious you look today. You and Lludd together – you’ll do incredible things for that Court. I just know it.’

With that, she withdrew her hand, and the curtain closed. The coach-driver steered them away and down the gravel roadway into the distance.

This time Crielle couldn’t stand there and watch Rhiamon leave. Not again.

*

Rhiamon was killed on assignment for the Oak King, not a week later.

She took several arrows to the back while trying to broker peace in a civil uprising against another faction of fae. She died instantly.

Crielle held the parchment for a long time, not knowing whether to be grateful that she’d seen Rhiamon one last time, or sad.

Eventually, her tears decided for her.

*

She was supposed to leave villages alone, so she went into the human world and took her poisons with her. She sickened wells and waterways, granaries and the root systems of orchards. It took her mind off her grief, and she felt a perverse pleasure knowing that she was embracing the curse, giving it room to breathe.

The Oak King discovered, later, what she had done, and let it go.

Humans mattered little to Seelie and Unseelie fae alike – aside from the few that championed them. It was an outlet. It was the safest one she had.

The rest of the time she helped Penarddun with her grieving, her pregnancy, even as Melchor and All’eth stayed nearby in close attendance, making sure that Crielle took care of herself.

But Crielle didn’t miss meals, didn’t stop presenting herself as finely coiffed, even as she was a woman in mourning.

There were some things her heartsong wouldn’t allow, and she was never unaware of her appearance. She had come to know what it felt like to have hairs out of place even without the benefit of a mirror to show her. She knew how her clothing was supposed to sit, she understood how best to position her limbs to best show them off to others, and her glamour rolled out constantly, as though she were a moon commanding the tides of other’s emotions.

*

Penarddun’s birth was difficult and long, the midwife uncertain if the child would survive. Euroswydd sat in the corner, throat too choked to speak anything other than the occasional ‘please,’ as Crielle, Delphine, All’eth and the midwife together kept Penarddun calm and employed herbs and magic to ease things as best they could.

Fae births were rarely smooth amongst common fae, and Penarddun’s grief for Rhiamon had knocked her body into a disadvantaged position, no matter how those around her had tried to prevent it.

‘Think of Efnisien, chwaer,’ Crielle whispered, taking Penarddun’s face in her hands and smiling at her. She could not lose Penarddun too. There was _no one_ else. Lludd was…an accessory. Melchor and All’eth were good confidantes. But there was no one else like Penarddun; not with Rhiamon gone.

Penarddun offered a tremulous smile in return, even as her face was slick with sweat, flushed, capillaries broken and tendrils of hair plastered damp around her. Her nostrils were damp with blood.

‘I’m just really tired, chwaer,’ Penarddun said. ‘It’s been three…four days now? Efnisien’s tired too. So tired, the poor, wee thing. Sometimes it’s just better to call it a-’

‘Let me,’ Crielle pressed her forehead to Penarddun’s and swallowed. ‘Let me convince you that you can do this. Just for another day. And then- And then if it doesn’t work, I’ll let you go.’

Crielle had no intention of letting any of this go. She would raze the whole world with her glamour if Penarddun died in childbirth.

‘Yes,’ Penarddun said, a faint moan in her voice, followed by a bleak laugh. ‘Do it. Efnisien deserves that much, doesn’t he? Euroswydd too? Just don’t sweep me too far in that current of yours, chwaer. Bring me back at the end.’

‘You’ll be with me, my dear. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

Truthfully, she didn’t know, even as she glamoured Penarddun full of determination and optimism, even as she flooded her with the belief that her body was strong and that her muscles could _push_ and that she wasn’t tired. Penarddun felt no fear when she began to haemorrhage, and despite tears and agony, she felt nothing but a concerted need to get her child into the world, a pleasure that she was doing _well._

Efnisien resisted their magic, their spells, their herbs.

He could not resist Crielle’s glamour, and was born to blood, tears and laughter three hours later.

*

‘He’s yours too,’ Penarddun said, smiling as she brushed her shaking fingers lightly over his already full head of golden hair. He stared up at them both, precocial and intelligent, something pleased in the eyes hiding behind thick golden lashes.

Crielle had left to rest after his birth. Her heart had throbbed with love for the both of them, but she’d pushed herself hard and it had been a trying time for everyone. Truthfully it was harder to disentangle her glamour from her sister than she’d thought it would be. There was an agony in the act of delivering her sister whole for Euroswydd and her son.

Hours later, Euroswydd celebrating with Lludd and the others, Crielle came to lie by her sister’s side, a tiny child between them, already watching the world with deep blue eyes, something of a smile on his face.

‘You did the work,’ Crielle said.

‘If you hadn’t been here, we’d have died,’ Penarddun laughed. ‘Both of us. Just like that. He can have two mothers. I don’t mind. I’m sure he doesn’t mind, do you, little Efnisien?’

Efnisien cooed softly.

In weeks or months, he would be speaking. He wasn’t like Crielle, after all, not born with a glamour so strong he would get all his wishes met instantly and without the need for words.

Crielle’s heart was full as she watched him. She wondered what it might be like to have her own child and felt the truth of it like golden light inside of herself. She wanted it more than she thought she’d wanted anything.

‘I’m ready,’ Crielle said. ‘I do believe I’m ready for my own.’

‘You’ll be an incredible mother. Look at all you did for us and he’s not even a day old, the little thing!’

Crielle reached down and tickled her fingers into his palm.

He watched her with something of laughter in his eyes and tried to bend her fingers back with his weak, straining muscles. She raised her eyebrows and then kissed Penarddun’s cheek, ruffling Efnisien’s hair.

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that curse skipping a generation, chwaer. He’s rather a lot like you were.’

‘I’m not worried anymore,’ Penarddun said, and leaned her head into Crielle’s, breathing slowing as she headed towards sleep. ‘We’re going to be a happy family. All of us, together.’

*

It was easier said than done, getting ready to have a child. Crielle wasn’t certain how she would go about having sex with Lludd. They hadn’t been physically intimate, as of yet, and Lludd hadn’t pushed at her about it; not after she’d made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in the act for anything other than procreation.

But even for procreation, she wasn’t sure how to best go about it.

Penarddun had no suggestions, because Penarddun loved the mess and fuss of sex. Loved everything about it. Books weren’t helpful. And she wasn’t willing to just tell him to get on with it, when she respected herself too much to let her first experience – and likely others – be anything other than passable, if not pleasing.

But her idea of passable was different to everyone else’s. And she was fairly certain that Lludd’s approach to sex would be fairly workmanlike.

She couldn’t _talk_ to anyone about it, because that wouldn’t be presenting the perfect appearance of a happy wife, a smoothly functioning power couple.

She was almost grateful when he was called away on assignment. Almost – but not quite. For every day she spent with Penarddun and Efnisien was a day spent wishing that she had her own child – _children_ – and that they could spend their time together growing as a family.

*

Months later, she had one of the servants deliver Lludd to her bedroom.

He stood there, practically vibrating with tension.

‘You’re ready then?’ he said.

‘You are going to let me glamour you,’ Crielle said smoothly. ‘Because any creature with a heartsong of ruthlessness is not one I trust to make this a pleasant exchange.’

Lludd opened his mouth to protest, then his thick, black brows pulled together. He didn’t wince, he was far too stoic for that, but there was a flicker of something uncertain in his gaze. After thirty seconds, he pursed his lips, nodded.

Crielle had expected more argument. She wondered just how much Lludd had been looking forward to this.

‘I will be using glamour during these…sessions, from now until I am pregnant, my dear,’ Crielle elaborated.

‘You have my consent,’ Lludd said.

It was hard to believe this was the fae who terrified great hoards on the seas. Not when he conceded to her so willingly. Not when he gazed at her with such longing. She offered him a small smile, and he grimaced.

‘Can we start? I wish for this to be done,’ he said.

She had to laugh as she started twisting her glamour around him, as he began to strip efficiently, exposing a body that was far more muscular than she preferred.

He wanted her, but he was as much a slave to his heartsong of ruthlessness as she was to the glow that sang a concern for appearance all the way through her. She had to make sure she was treated well.

*

It didn’t take.

She cleaned herself off in the shower, smelling of herbs and other aromatics, Lludd asleep on her bed and a pleasant ache between her thighs. Even with her glamour wrapped around him, through him, he was still so quick to be rough that she hadn’t been able to catch him every time he went to pin her wrist to the bed. She’d made a game of it in the end, trying to predict the ways his nature would rule him.

She only had faint bruises, and they were already healing.

She didn’t know what she felt about the whole business of it. Just a transaction? Something else?

All she knew was that she’d have to do it again, because it had failed the first time.

Her lip pulled up in disgust.

*

Her child wasn’t waiting for her the second time, nor the third, nor the fourteenth, and nor – after Lludd had been away at sea and come back again and Efnisien was five years old – the thirty second.

*

‘Oh, ‘Swydd and I had fucked maybe two hundred times before Efnisien came along,’ Penarddun laughed, as they both watched Efnisien chasing birds with a small bow and arrow. He turned back to look at them frequently, eyes bright with happy affection, and they waved him on.

‘ _Two hundred times,’_ Crielle said, staring at her. ‘I’m surprised you leave your room, Penny!’

‘So am I!’ Penny giggled. ‘No, really, so am I. I think we’d stay in there all the time if we could.’

‘ _Still?’_

‘You don’t like it?’

‘It’s…messy,’ Crielle said, shaking her head. ‘It’s not hateful. He’s getting better, I believe.’

‘What are you gonna do when your baby throws up on you?’ Penarddun said, poking her gently.

Crielle sighed.

Penarddun didn’t understand. Those things didn’t repulse her in the same way. She’d had Efnisien throw up on her, discovering an allergy they didn’t know he had. It had raised a brief moment of uncertainty, followed by all her affection narrowing back to Efnisien’s welfare, his comfort. She wasn’t bothered by those things. And it wasn’t as though sex with Lludd was unbearable, either.

But two hundred times? It was unconscionable. She was already using herbs, already had charms hanging in her room. She knew that it was difficult for fae to conceive sometimes, but it was almost as though her child didn’t want to come to her.

‘I suppose you might say I’m impatient,’ Crielle said, waving at Efnisien languidly when he turned to them once more.

‘You can’t just glamour this one into existence, chwaer,’ Penarddun said, leaning her head into Crielle’s shoulder. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

*

It was Penarddun’s idea to stand beneath the largest meteor shower of the year. The night drifted around them both as Penarddun snuffed out the candles so that they might better see the stars. They’d poured a glass of mead to the earth in memory of Rhiamon, and Efnisien was safe in his bed, Euroswydd away on a military campaign and Lludd in the library, looking over nautical maps. The fields were theirs, even as Melchor and All’eth and the others made sure the house ran smoothly.

Lights streaked across the sky. Crielle stared at them, feeling something eldritch twist through her. This was her birthright. This was what it meant to be fae, to entreat the elements and have them _respond._

‘Make your wish, chwaer,’ Penarddun said, kissing her on the cheek and running fleet of foot back towards the manor.

Crielle wanted to do this alone.

She stared up at the meteors, could almost feel the way they sung so high above her. The constellations hummed – even far away. It was a faint song, fainter than even the worms turning the soil and the delicate fungi around tree roots sending hyphae into the world.

She opened her heart to whoever might be out there waiting for her. She spread her fingers wide and wondered where they were; if they would share her bloodlust, if they would be a warrior like their father, if they would be rich with the dra’ocht or something else.

She brought her hands together and wished.

*

She had always imagined herself going straight to Penarddun as soon as she knew she was pregnant.

In fact, the uncontrolled burst of glamour that came at Crielle’s joy and knowledge, let everyone in the manor know the very instant she did. Lludd hadn’t even yet withdrawn when she felt it; something turning inside of her, a key in a lock.

*

The next day she reclined on a chaise in the sun lounge, Penarddun encouraging Efnisien to read a book nearby. Efnisien could read quite well, but he was stubborn, and he found the whole thing very tedious. But he was a member of a Noble Court family, and he had to learn some self-discipline. He certainly had to read with fine diction, and he was a lazy thing. He slurred the words on purpose.

Penarddun kept looking over to Crielle with an impish, excited smile on her face, and Crielle returned something far more graceful, but no less sincere.

She rested her hands on her flat belly, knowing that there was someone there. A _boy._ She was impatient to meet him, her head turned towards the bay windows and watching wisteria blossoms brushing against the glass. She stroked fingers over her dress, over her flesh, and imagined he could tell, that he could feel her regard for him.

It was too soon and she knew he couldn’t tell – not yet.

But he _would_ know. He would know how she felt for him.

She saw her love as a golden light and she bathed him in it, sent it through her flesh so that she might enfold him in it. She knew it was a strong, fierce love. As bright as any star.


End file.
